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“Shoot…shoot. I’m sorry I don’t speak Spanish. No speak Español.” I make a face because it really is a travesty that after four years of living in Arizona and four more living in L.A. and listening to my Spanish For Dummies audio on my way to work, all I can say is, “Dónde está el baño.”
“Do you understand? Phone? Telephone? I need to call people,” I repeat with some deadass cringe pantomiming of a phone.
He blinks. “Turner.”
Turner? What the heck does that mean? It doesn’t even sound like Spanish. This is where Google translate would come in handy.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I reply, my exasperation coming through loud and clear. By the way he’s staring at me, he must think I’m insane. “I can’t believe the month I’m having! Make that the year. 2020 sucks!” I tip my head back, searching for guidance, a sign, anything.
The silence persists and my attention returns to big gay Spanish Santa. His brows draw down.
“I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry I’m shouting. I have a bad habit of talking to myself out loud…”
A habit I picked up during all the late nights I spent in an empty office doing research. As a way to quiet the fear of being there alone. Why I’m telling this guy is beyond me. “Dónde está telephono?” I whine one last time.
Sitting up, he stretches his neck side to side. Then, once again, he aims the full power of his attention at me, and I shrink back. Those dark blue eyes are very intense.
“Step aside please.”
What the heck…what the heck. Burning shame crawls up my neck. “Oh, ha…uh, yeah, sorry.”
I’m having a really bad month.
I scoot out of the way and he rises from the recliner in one fluid motion. Then he stretches. Arms to the ceiling, he bends left, then right, and his shirt tags along for the ride, revealing a happy trail and a set of grooves next to his hip bones only comic book villains and gym rats possess.
The shirt comes down and my eyes slowly climb over him. It’s hard not to. This is when I get the full picture of how powerfully built he really is. His shoulders, his chest, his thighs. What’s equally hard to miss is how powerless I am in comparison.
Despite that I’m no slouch at 5’6,” I have zero muscle and even less desire to build any. I’d go so far as to say my thumb is my strongest appendage, clearly due to all the ill-advised tweets I like to send. Or maybe my tongue for obvious reasons. Either way, this guy could squash me with one hand if he wanted to. Let’s hope he doesn’t.
While I remain rooted to the floor trying to look as unappealing as possible, I catch him eyeballing me––measuring me up. It’s a stealthy quick assessment, but I catch it anyway. I’m a pro at observation––wouldn’t be very good at my job if I wasn’t––and the disinterested act he’s putting on isn’t fooling anyone.
Not that I’m a great temptation or anything––I look like the Pillsbury dough boy right now––but if he wasn’t gay, I’d be a little more concerned. All I can hope for is that he’s not sizing me up for a skin suit.
His gaze drops and he walks out of the room without a word.
“Turner…” I scurry after him, out of the room. “Turner, right? That’s your name?”
“Don’t wear it out,” he replies, his back retreating down the hall. He enters what one would hypothetically call a kitchen, but in reality looks more like a dungeon for butchering things. Fingers crossed it isn’t people.
Slowly, I follow and stop at the threshold of the room. Physical distancing is my friend right now. I don’t know who this guy is or what he’s really capable of and I will not be the dumb girl in this story.
“Turner…do you have a last name?”
His brow furrows as he fills the glass coffee pot with water from the sink. “Just Turner.” Turning on his socked feet, he heads to the refrigerator on the opposite wall. “How’s your head?”
Subject is obviously not a fan of eye contact. He’s doing everything to avoid it.
I brush my fingertips over the knot on my head and wince. “Okay, I guess…a little sore.”
Pulling out a bag of coffee grinds, he lays it on the counter. “Advil in that drawer”––he points to the drawer of the cabinets closest to me––“Ice in the freezer.”
“No, thank you. Ice and I are no longer on friendly terms. So, umm, I take it you don’t have a landline…”
“Nope.”
“When do you think this storm will let up? You know––since my phone has no signal”––once again, I glance down at the phone in my hand. Yup, zippo––“and your television doesn’t seem to be working.” I motion to the room with the TV with the hockey puck stuck in the middle of it.
